“It’s one game. Not the end of our season.” Doesn’t matter that I embarrassed myself in front of Sabres scouts. ESPNU. My family. Nova. Doesn’t matter that the Eagles are probably in their locker room right now screaming about how they beat the NHL’s top prospects. Doesn’t matter that Cauler hates me again, if he ever actually stopped.
I keep seeing my shot go right into that glove. They probably replayed it twenty times in the postgame report.
“You say that,” Dad says as we push through a side exit. “But you look like it’s bothering you.”
I scoff. Is he serious right now? “How would you be able to tell, Dad? This is just my face.”
His arm loosens on my shoulders and I slip out of his grasp, quickening my steps. His longer legs keep pace with me easily.
“Mickey. Hey. Tell me what’s going on.”
I keep walking.
“Mickey,” Dad says again, more firmly this time. His hand closes around my wrist, jerking me to a stop. I yank my arm away from him. I am so sick of being pulled around like this. I turn my back on him and shove my hands into my hair, still wet and gritty with sweat.
I shouldn’t be this tired, this sweaty, this sore. I didn’t do shit in that game. I handed Ralph Lu a save he’ll remember for the rest of his life.
Oh god. What am I supposed to do with myself if everyone decides I suck at hockey?
A hand settles on my shoulder and pushes. I let it guide me without much thought to who it is or where they’re taking me. I’m pushed down onto a bench outside the arena, on the hill overlooking campus and the lake.
The trees are almost bare. The bells start ringing out the alma mater from the top of Main Building, announcing the start of the dinner hours. A group of girls march down the hill with their arms locked together, dressed in Royals purple and black, singing one of their class songs. The colors of the sunset reflect off the lake.
My eyes sting. The air feels so heavy all of a sudden.
“Talk to me,” Dad says. “What’s going on?”
“Please stop pretending you care.” It’s a fight to keep my voice even. I squeeze my hands together to stop them from shaking and tuck my chin to my chest, hiding deeper in my hood so he can’t see my eyes well up.
“What are you talking about? Of course I care.”
“You only care ’cause it’s affecting my game.” My breath stutters. “Just tell me how bad I screwed up today and be done with it. Please. I cannot handle whatever the hell you’re doing right now.”
“You’re fine, bud. Every team has bad games. Every player makes bad plays.”
“In front of Sabres scouts. In front of you and Mom.”
“Mickey. Look at me.” I don’t. He takes me by the shoulder again and forces me to turn toward him. I scramble to wipe the tears from my face before he sees them. “It was one shot amongst years of great hockey. You don’t need to be this torn up about it.”
I finally look at him. And maybe I do see hints of myself in him. In his inability to show how he really feels. He’s burning with disappointment and embarrassment inside. I know it. But he’s looking at me like he means every word.
My next breath comes in this uncontrollable shudder, and suddenly I am violently sobbing on a bench out in the open next to my father. I drop my face into my hands and hold my breath, trying to make it stop, but that only makes the next sob louder and more aggressive. Dad sits next to me patiently and quietly while I have a complete breakdown, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this low in my life. By the time I get my breathing under control and the tears to slow, the sun is almost set and my head aches.
“Bailey and I have been talking about you,” Dad says while I wipe my nose on my sleeves and pull my feet up onto the bench to make myself as small as possible. “She’s worried. Remember the medicine your mother used to take?”
I shrug. I’ve got this vague memory of stopping at a pharmacy with Mom as a kid, her arguing about the price of a small orange pill bottle. But it’s been seven years since I lived with them, so I don’t remember much.
“They were antidepressants,” Dad goes on. “Did you know depression is genetic?”
“I’m not depressed,” I say on instinct. My voice is small and lifeless again.
“You’re showing a lot of the signs your mom did.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t have the energy to argue. I watch a few dry leaves scratch against the cement in front of the bench, the breeze pushing them around and making me shiver.
“You have a few days off for Thanksgiving,” Dad says. “Why don’t you come home? We can get you into a doctor and—”
At least I have the energy to laugh at that hilarious joke.
“What?” Dad asks.
“Home.” I scoff. “You mean with the Vinters? Or my billet family in Michigan.”
“I mean with me and your mother and Madison.”
“When has that ever been my home?”
“Mickey—”
“I don’t even have a room in your house, Dad.”
He breathes in sharply. Gets out half a syllable before stopping himself. He bought a four-bedroom house when he got traded to Carolina. One room for him and Mom. One for the twins. One for Bailey and Delilah. And one for Mikayla as the oldest. I was ten. But I wouldn’t need a room if I never spent more than a couple days there at a time.
“You still have a place there, Mickey,” Dad says after a tense moment of silence.
I stand up and start walking. “I need to shower.”
He doesn’t follow me.
* * *
I TAKE MY phone into the shower and open the group chat.
Mickey: Don’t forget the scotch
Maybe some vodka too
Actualy the whole liquor store woudl be great
Delilah: Someone needs a drink
Mickey: drinks.
Plural.
Many of them.
Mikayla: We got you covered kid
Mickey: Nice
Sure you don’t wanna drink at the lax house instead
Bailey: They’re not partying tonight
The guys have 6am fall ball
Mickey: Kill me
Bailey: We can just drink in my room?
Mickey: Omg yes pls
I’m pulling on a pair of black jeans when Dorian and Barbie come in.
“Terzo, perfect!” Dorian says, all excited like I didn’t just lose us a hockey game an hour ago. “We need your permission for something.”
I tense up, turned toward the closet. My eyes are swollen from all the crying and I don’t need them seeing me like this. “Okay?”
“Remember that film project I showed you?” Dorian sits on the edge of his bed and runs a hand through his hair, almost nervously. “We need your okay to use anything you show up in.”
“For what?” I pull on a black V-neck and look in the mirror. My closet isn’t exactly colorful, but I don’t usually wear all black like this. I actually kinda like it. Cauler and Dorian still pull it off way better than me though.
“We want to put it online,” Dorian says. “Barbie was drafted fifth round by the Flames. This is the only way to make him famous.”
I see Barbie give Dorian a look in the mirror as I run my fingers through my wet hair. He mutters something in Spanish that makes Dorian smirk. To me, he says, “Part of it’s a compilation of you saying kill me.”
“What?” I whip around to face them.
“You say it a lot, dude,” Dorian says. Then he gets a good look at me and his face drops. “You okay, man?”
Shit. I turn my face to the floor and look for my wallet. “I’m fine.”
“No, but you got like, emotions on your face.”
“The aftermath of emotions,” Barbie corrects him.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can’t get mad at them when I’ve made it a point to seem emotionless. Dorian’s probably the nicest person to me on this campus. He already knows so much. And Barbie’s pretty much attached to him at the hip. If I’m gonna open up to anyone on this team, it might as well be them.
“Been a rough day,” I mumble. My phone vibrates on my dresser. A snap from Madison.
“Family issues?” Dorian asks. I raise my eyes to look at him without lifting my face. He gives me this knowing look. “Every time you get a message from your dad, you look like you wanna smash your phone. And now he’s here, so I figure you’d wanna smash his face instead.”
I shake my head and sigh. “It’s not that bad.”